Boogeymen, Monsters, Dreams & Things
by FotoBridgeT2
Summary: EMILY/OMC. Emily meets her own police detective on the streets of Washington. And she doesn't like him, so why is she still drawn to him?
1. Chapter 1

**This is not a HOTCH/EMILY FIC! IT'S EMILY/OMC and most likely Morgan/Ziva!**

**(no clue where it came from)**

**CM/WITHOUT A TRACE/NCIS Crossover)**

CHAPTER ONE--A FUN NIGHT

"_In the beginning it was fun. In the end, it was all for fun. And in between is where it tickles most."_

It had been a fun night, Emily thought as she and the rest of the girls left the bar. JJ waddled a bit behind Emily, pregnancy making her just a little more awkward than Emily ever thought to see her friend. Garcia was on her left, chatting animatedly with Abby about God only knew what.

The two were definitely of a kind. They'd been friends forever, Garcia had explained to Emily the first time she'd introduced her friends nearly two years ago. Ziva David walked on Emily's left, the Israeli keeping silent. Emily knew the youngest member of their group was tired, she'd had a grueling case, and Ziva had barely escaped intact. The final two members of their usual monthly girls' night out group brought up the rear. Elena and Sam--who'd both driven down from NY together for this get-together--were talking quietly about the latest addition to their team and the issues he'd created with Jack Malone.

None of them were really paying attention to their surroundings. The two techs were a little past tipsy, only JJ, Emily, and Elena were completely sober. But it was late, and they were all tired.

And really, five federal agents plus two techs should have been safe walking across a parking lot, right?

Emily should have known better. They were halfway across the parking lot, where Emily's sedan and Elena's SUV waited when the first group of males approached. They numbered around a dozen, and all were in their twenties and early thirties, too old to be standard street gang material—unless they were lifers. To Emily, they looked like trouble. Her hand drifted to the weapon she always carried in the waist band of her jeans. They'd come out after work to unwind, meeting up with the two NCIS agents at a new bar they'd heard intriguing things about. Emily was glad she'd not taken time to stop home after work—she may have left the weapon at home.

"Well, well. This must be my lucky day." One man said, eyes running over the group of women. He was Caucasian, built like Derek, and evil. It shown in his eyes. The parking lot's streetlights cast everything in a strangely green glow, making everything seem surreal. "Seven ladies to keep me entertained. What are the likes of you doing here in this dump?"

He stepped closer to the front of the group, which meant he stood nearly toe to toe with Emily. She squared her shoulders, pulled her hand away from her weapon just a bit. She'd pull it out if necessary, but she knew the odds were pretty good that the men were armed as well. They certainly couldn't afford a gun war—not unless it was absolutely necessary. She felt Elena and Ziva moving closer to her left and right sides respectively, felt Sam placing herself in front of JJ. Abby and Garcia moved to the back of their little group. "We're on our way out of here, and we don't want any trouble."

"Oh, pretty angel, it won't be any trouble for me and my friends to show you a good time." He grabbed his groin crudely. "Is it true what they say about dark-eyed women being demons in bed? You service the devil himself? I am more than willing to find out. The devil has nothing on me."

His hand rose to touch the dark hair resting on her shoulder. Emily moved away, but she didn't cower, didn't flinch—just looked him dead on. "We're not interested. We don't want any trouble. I suggest you let us pass."

"And if I don't?" His hand wrapped around her forearm, pulling her slightly to him.

"Do not pull your gun, Emily." Ziva said in her native language. Emily understood her caution, and she nodded quickly. "They will take that as an invitation. We are ready."

"What did the little bitch say?" the leader asked, shaking Emily's arm slightly.

"Merely that you were a gentleman and wouldn't give us any trouble—because you know that wouldn't be a good idea." Emily lied. Ziva and Elena stepped away from her, freeing up space for them to move, to fight if necessary. They all tensed.

The man laughed, the sound echoed by his cohorts. Emily was ready when he jerked her forward. Her elbow rose, connecting with his nose, and her knee hit him square in the stomach. He doubled over, screaming in rage. Emily didn't pause to think, her body just reacting to the threats of the twelve men. She was eternally grateful she'd taken Derek up on his offer to teach her a few more sparring moves—and like everything else, she'd thrown herself whole-heartedly into the lessons. She heard Garcia squealing as the other men erupted, heard the sounds of flesh hitting flesh as the Moussad agent on her right sprung into action, quickly taking down two men nearest her. Elena wasn't as graceful in her technique as the younger Ziva, but she gave as good as she got in down-and-dirty street fighting. So far, they were holding their own.

Sam had taken it upon herself to protect JJ, and Emily caught the sight of the beautiful blond ushering the pregnant blond behind a nearby car. Garcia and Abby soon followed, though they made quick work of gathering stones to toss at the men surrounding Ziva, Elena, and Emily. Emily had the insane urge to laugh—leave it to those two to throw rocks at the bad guys.

Then her thoughts turned back to the danger surrounding their group as at least seven more men joined the party, emerging from the shadows. Elena went down with a pained yell as the two men nearest her grabbed her. Emily moved to her aid, her foot flying out and connecting with the smaller man's chin. He stood half a foot shorter than Emily, so it was a relatively easy maneuver. Ziva moved on the other man, and he soon lay unconscious between them. Elena hopped up quickly, and the three turned back to the threat.

Emily heard a scream behind her and she recognized it immediately as JJ's. She turned, and the move cost her. A hard slap connected with her cheek, sending her half to the pavement below. But she caught herself, though not in time. Hands closed around her throat, cutting off her air. She tried bucking the bastard off of her, aware of the rest of the men's circle growing tighter around her, Ziva, and Elena, aware of Sam, JJ, Abby, and Garcia being forced closer to them by the other half of the men. Her mind swirled, dots formed, and then she was breathing again, and Ziva was pulling her to her feet.

Emily's hand dropped to her gun, and she saw Ziva, Elena, and Sam echoing the movement. The seven women were nearly shoulder to shoulder. Emily shoved JJ directly behind her; Garcia and Abby moved to blockade the area around JJ as they stood in the center of their group.

Emily knew it was hopeless as she continued to step backwards, forcing JJ, Abby and Garcia into a tighter little circle. She just hoped JJ had had time to call 911 on her ever present cell phone. Even with four of them armed, they didn't stand a chance against nearly twenty men intent on harming them. Emily also knew they wouldn't go down without a fight.

Emily, Sam, Ziva, and Elena formed a four-point, covering each direction, weapons drawn and steady as they aimed at the bastards surrounding them. Emily was the one who spoke, though the swelling on her neck made her voice more hoarse than usual. "You really want to back off, now. We don't play games."

"What the hell are you?" The leader asked, breathing harshly. The blood trailing down his nose thrilled Emily. She'd hit the bastard damned hard a time or two. She was thankful only half of the men had joined the fight, the others apparently getting a sick sense of enjoyment watching their friends knock the women around. Sick bastards.

"What do you mean _what are we?_" Emily's aim was steady on his heart. If they made one more move, she was taken him down. His body language made it clear he understood that. No one moved. "For the most part, we're FBI. I told you to let us pass."

"That ain't happenin'." He smirked, before nodding at some men behind Emily. She didn't look away, trusting her friends to have her back. "We outnumber you three to one, little angel. Three to one, and we have guns, too. Much bigger guns. And for you, especially, pretty angel, I will show you mine. Even let you _touch_ it."

Several of the men laughed at his innuendo. Emily never took her eyes off his hands. If he reached for a weapon, he was gone. "I'm not interested. _We're _not interested. We didn't want any trouble, but you insisted. And. We. Won't. Back. Down."

"Pretty angel, you have balls of steel." He laughed then, and stepped closer. Nearly fifteen feet separated the ring of men from the women. "But you see, _we _have bigger guns, bigger bullets, and there are more of us."

"But if you shoot us, you do not get what you want." Emily said, voice flat and hard. "But if we shoot you, _we _get exactly what we want. And there's how many of you?"

"Nineteen." Ziva interjected from where she stood on Emily's right and Sam's left. "There are nineteen of them. I have fifteen rounds."

"I have seventeen." Elena said. Sam said nothing.

"So _we _have plenty of bullets for what we need to do." Emily told the man. "And I, for one—do not miss. Understand me? So tell me, you want it in the dick, the stomach, or between the eyes? I'm not particularly picky, the dick's painful, the stomach messy, and the head over real quick. You decide."


	2. Chapter 2

MEXICAN STANDOFF

_In __popular culture__, the Mexican standoff is often portrayed as multiple opponents with weapons aimed at each other, such that each opponent feels equally threatened and does not believe they can strike first without endangering their own life; not only does any initial shot decisively destroy the unstable equilibrium of multiple __deterrence__, shooting any one person takes one's aim away from the other opponent.--WIKIPEDIA_

There were some days Lt. Michael Wyatt hated his job. Most days, in fact. And that night wasn't any different. He'd just about clocked out for the night, his desk was perfectly organized—one of the few in the bullpen that could possibly be considered neat, and he wanted nothing more than to head home, prop up his feet and down a cold beer.

But as head of the DC taskforce for Gang Prevention, rumors of serious gang activity fell under his purveyance. So when the call came in, he had no real choice in the matter. He gathered the half-dozen members of his team that were still in the bullpen, and put in a call for a few dozen more uni's as back up and headed out.

The two calls had originated from the area housing Colley's Bar, a relatively new place that was said to cater to the trendy young professionals. It wasn't the high spot for gang activity, so Michael wasn't all that worried. But the bar owner had called, reporting some of his patrons were being harassed in the parking lot by a large group of men, so Michael would check it out. It was the second call that was more weird, for lack of a better descriptor. Something about FBI agents being harassed. The 911 operator had admitted the connection wasn't that great. Wyatt didn't have a clue what they'd find when they got there. He ordered his men to go in soft, lights off and sirens silent. No sense frightening the participants off before he got there.

What they did find, shocked him.

His car crested the top of the small hill slowly, affording him a perfect view of the Colley's parking lot. In older days, it would have been called a Mexican standoff. No one was moving. Nearly thirty people were frozen in a sort of stasis that immediately caught his attention. His teammate pulled the vehicle to a stop, and they existed nearly one hundred and fifty feet from the tableau. In the center of the action was a group of women, and Michael judged them to be the cliental of the bar. Four stood armed, guns held steady, faces blank, their very stances shouting law enforcement, three stood clumped in the middle, fear and defiance on _their _faces. Just what the hell was going on?

Half the men turned toward the squad cars, and bolted. But the main players stayed frozen. Only four of the women were armed, and Wyatt's team held their own weapons pointed at them. They encircled the circle encircling the women. It was a strange sight. Wyatt picked up the bull horn and depressed the button. "Lower your weapons! All of you!"

"FBI!" The woman in the front yelled. Her gun didn't lower even an inch. She never looked away from her target. Michael's gaze followed hers. He recognized the man she aimed at, Al Corruthers. Knew him well, had been looking to bust him for years, for that final third strike. And it was evident to him, at least, that Corruthers was high on something, unreasonable. Dangerous. The rest of the bastards were looking a little nervous, and Wyatt didn't expect much protest from them. Corruthers ran with the easily submissive, gave him a dominating thrill to control them. Wyatt was thankful for that right now. It was an explosive situation. But these men weren't true gang members, just easily directed by Corruthers in his dirty work. When faced with real threat—such as the nearly thirty officers now surrounding them, they'd crumble. Wyatt was counting on that. The woman was shouting something else, though she never looked at Wyatt. "SSA Prentiss, badge number…"

He looked to the driver of his car. "Run the number, quickly."

It took less than thirty seconds to confirm the woman's ID. Still, what the hell was going on? "Agent Prentiss, care to explain what's going on here?"

"This bastard thought we wanted to play. Wouldn't take no for an answer. I want them arrested, charged with assault on federal agents, sexual assault, and a whole host of other things." Her voice was husky, firm, and confident. Wyatt didn't hear even a hint of fear. "But we're not lowering our weapons until they're in custody, do you understand me?"

Wyatt took a bit of affront that she'd thought to issue orders to him so easily. He might not be FBI, but he knew his jurisdiction superseded hers in this instance. There was no federal crime in what was done—unless he counted the fact that the victims were apparently federal agents, that was. "I said lower them, lady."

"They're armed, as well." The woman hollered back, still not looking at Wyatt. "And until they're subdued, I. Am. Not. Endangering. My. Friends. Understand?"

The three other armed women nodded, faces tight and severe. They never looked away from their targets, either. These women were professionals. The gang members now stood frozen, only about seven having escaped the circle Wyatt's officers had formed around them. Still, twelve men surrounded the women, and Wyatt could definitely understand the federal agent's reluctance. Any firing done, and the women most likely would be caught in the cross-fire. The leader of the bastards still faced the apparent leader of the women, his eyes never leaving her face. Wyatt didn't trust the smirk on the bastard's face. "I get it, lady, but you're not in charge here. I am. Corruthers, you stupid son-of-a-bitch, I want you're hands on your head, your little friends, too. Then, lady, I want those weapons lowered. Got me? I'm not playing games here!"

"Neither are we! Damned bitch!" The man suddenly yelled, his weapon in his hand. The malevolence in his gaze was directed at the dark-haired woman—as was the gun. Three guns fired then, Wyatt's, Corruthers', and the woman's.

Two people went down. Wyatt's men moved in, quickly subduing the remaining gang members. Apparently they weren't as suicidal as Corruthers. Wyatt moved forward, rushing toward the second fallen individual. Her friends encircled her, attempting first aid. Her blood was flowing quickly from the wound in her upper chest, and Wyatt suspected the bullet had hit an artery. He cursed, ripping his jacket from his body and giving it to one of the dark-haired women at her side to press against the wound. He heard the sounds of the ambulance approaching.

The injured woman's eyes opened, dark and pain-filled. She looked right at him. "Did I get him?"

"Yes. We both did." Wyatt knelt beside her. He ran a quick eye over her, checking for other injuries. Her face was bloodied, something he'd missed in the low light. Her shirt was torn, revealing the edge of an icy blue bra. He throat was covered in red marks and that told its own story. Her hair was straight, but as dark as the night around them. She was beautiful, earthy. He could see why she'd caught Corruthers' attention. She moaned, and Wyatt moved closer, one hand grabbing hers unconsciously.

"Is JJ ok? I heard her scream." She asked of the ice-blond woman near her feet.

"She's fine. She's sitting in a squad car with a blanket." The blond said. "So far, Emily, everyone is ok. Except for you, always playing the hero."

"Z? El? They're both ok?"

"Em—I am right here. Ziva, too." Another brunette said in an accented voice,exchanging worried looks with the others.

"Oh. That's right." Her dark eyes closed. "What about Pen and Abby? They ok?"

"Everyone is fine." Another accented voice said, Wyatt wasn't sure who spoke, but thought it might be the smallest of the women. "You should worry about you, no?"

"So everyone is ok." She nodded slightly, her eyes still closed. "Guess we should have went somewhere else, huh? What are the odds?"

"Not high." The blond said. "Maybe we all have bad karma or something?"

"Or something." The injured woman whispered. "Somebody better call Hotch. He's going to be angry about this one. Won't be able to work for a while."

"JJ already did." Ziva said. "Your boss and team mates are meeting us at the hospital."

"Why? It's not like this is case related?" Her brow furrowed. "Just sort of happened."

"Emily, save your breath." The small one ordered in that strangely accented voice that Wyatt couldn't quite place. "You'll need your energy at the hospital."

She nodded, then her body went limp. No one moved.

Wyatt looked up the hill, seeing the traffic and congestion as it blocked the ambulance's path to the woman. "Son of a bitch! They can't get here! Too many rubberneckers!"

"We need to get her to them!" The little one said again, looking straight at Wyatt.

"Was it a through-and-through?" He asked hurriedly.

"I don't think so." The Hispanic woman said.

"Help me secure her arm." He ordered, the blond removed her jacket and handed it to him. He wrapped it around the injured woman's—_Emily's_—arm. He used the sleeves to tie it off, putting the pressure on the injury. He slipped one arm under her knees and the other behind her shoulders as carefully as he could.

He was thankful she was unconscious. It would have been doubly painful for her if she'd been aware of the movement. He lifted her straight from the ground and carried her up the hill, meeting the EMT's and their gurney two hundred feet from the blood-stained pavement where she'd fallen.

She never opened her eyes.

He held her hand while they rushed the gurney to the ambulance and loaded her quickly into the back. Only then did he release her. He was aware of another blond, this one slightly heavy-set and wearing loud clothing, climbing in the bay with her. Then the doors were closed in his face and the ambulance roared away.

Leaving him behind to clean up the mess.

(So what do you all think of Detective Michael Wyatt? Next chapter, we bring in the clowns!—I mean the teams, of course!)


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE: NEVER BACK DOWN

_Firmness in enduring and exertion is a character I always wish to possess. I have always despised the whining yelp of complaint and cowardly resolve.__  
_**_Robert Burns_**

Ziva David sat in the corner of the waiting room, eyes constantly scanning the slowly enlarging crowd. In addition to herself and Abby and Pen—and that policeman who'd carried Emily to the ambulance, members of the various teams were arriving. The first to arrive was a man slightly younger than Gibbs, carrying a small baby. His hair was cut short and dark. He looked a bit ragged, a bit worn, but she supposed he could be deemed handsome by some. "Where's Agent Spade?"

Pen was the one to answer. "She's being examined, sir."

"How bad was she hurt?" He demanded, pulling the baby closer.

"Bumps and bruises at the most." Ziva broke in, suspecting that this was Jack Malone, Sam's supervisor. And Sam's new baby. The blond had told them the supervisor had agreed to keep the baby in a hotel nearby for the night, just in case he needed his mother, while she went out with her friends for the first time since giving birth. "Elena is also being examined."

A twinge of guilt flashed in his eyes at the mention of his other agent. Ziva's lips quirked, now entirely convinced he was completely in love with Sam. She wondered if the other agent knew.

"How is she, too?" The baby fussed, drawing the man's attention. He jiggled him, the move shouting long experience.

"Bumps and bruises." Ziva repeated.

"Any news on your friend, Agent Prentiss?" The man settled on a hard plastic chair, and pulled a bottle from the blue bag slung over his shoulder.

"Nothing yet." Penelope said. "We're still waiting."

Before anything else could be said, Ziva saw a familiar face. Timothy McGee was rushing down the corridor toward their waiting room, Dr. Ducky on his heels. He stopped just inside the waiting room, eyes darting first to Ziva in the corner, then over to the wildly dressed Abby. He dropped to his knees in front of the Goth woman. "Abby."

"Oh, Timmy! It was awful, there was so many of them! And Emily and Ziva and Elena were fighting so hard! And Sam tried to get me and Pen and JJ back inside, but she couldn't!" Abby threw her arms around his neck and held on, as dramatically as Abby did everything.

Ducky moved to Ziva, taking one hand in his. "My dear, I take it you are well?"

"Of course, doctor." Ziva murmured softly, as always, touched by the doctor's concern. He never treated her like a killer, but like a lady. It disconcerted her occasionally.

"And your friends?" Ducky asked, one eye running quickly over the female occupants of the room. "Any news?"

"Still waiting. I don't suppose you…" She asked, knowing he had privilege at all the hospitals in the area.

"Certainly, my dear. It will be only a moment." With that the elderly doctor slipped into the ER to inquire about the women's conditions. Less than three minutes later, the first woman appeared. Sam rushed to her supervisor and her baby, taking the child and cuddling close. She'd fared pretty well, with just a split lip and bruised ribs, was what she told the waiting crowd. She sat beside Malone and was asleep on his shoulder within minutes from the pain pill.

Soon four men burst into the hospital, faces pale and bodies tensed. Ziva suspected they were BAU, and that was confirmed when Penelope squealed and launched herself at the dark one. He hugged her tight, then pulled back before asking. "Em and Jay?"

"They're doing a routine exam on JJ. She fell at one point. We don't know about Emily, Morgan. She was bleeding so much!" Penelope had tears running down her cheeks as she turned to the most severe looking man. He was handsome, Ziva admitted, and though his body language shouted cold, she could see the heat in his eyes. He was angry, powerfully so. Kind of like Gibbs would get when one of his team was endangered. This must be Emily's boss, Hotchner.

Ziva still stood in her corner, eyes cataloging everyone in the room. The older man was vaguely familiar, she'd seen him on television and figured he was the writer Emily had mentioned. And then there was the young one. He was no older than Ziva, and tall and thin. Cute, if she went for the more bookish. She didn't. She looked straight at the almost-cold one. "Dr. Ducky is asking about Emily now."

"Dr. Ducky?" The darkly handsome one enquired.

"My colleague. NCIS chief medical examiner. He came with McGee to pick Abby and myself up. He has privilege here and can get the information quickly." Ziva didn't trust the dark one. He made her nervous. And Ziva always trusted her instincts.

"What the hell happened?" The writer one asked. "How did she get shot in a bar? For God sakes, and where's JJ?"

"A question I'd like answered." A southern Louisiana accent said from behind the four men blocking the door to the waiting room. The BAU men moved aside to let the two new arrivals enter. Penelope threw herself at the taller of the two--a man who dressed as loudly as she. Ziva suspected that was the infamous Kevin Lynch. The smaller man looked incredibly worried. "Agent Hotchner? Where's JJ?"

"I believe I can answer that." Another accented voice Ziva recognized as Ducky's said from behind even him, "If we could all please move _inside _the waiting room, instead of congesting the hall?"

No one missed the man's silent rebuke. Ziva smiled at the power Ducky wielded in a medical facility as compared with that he _didn't _wield elsewhere. She really loved that British man. The BAU men moved in, dwarfing the small waiting room. They were followed by Ducky, and to Ziva's surprise, Gibbs and Tony. Gibbs moved to Ziva's side quickly, and squeezed her hand lightly. "Dr. Ducky? Emily? JJ? Elena?"

"Agent Prentiss is holding her own." He began. "The bullet entered the left shoulder, nicking an artery. But they got the bleeding stopped. It was touch and go—apparently your friend is sensitive to the anesthesia and that caused a bit of concern. But it is under control now. It's still going to be touch and go, I am afraid, until they can be certain _all _the damage was repaired. We should know by morning. Your friend JJ is doing well, and will be released as soon as they finish the ultrasound. It's only a precaution. And your pretty friend with the lovely accent is arguing against X-rays and stitches. Probably broken ribs, broken nose, and broken arm. Their physicians will be with us all shortly, for more details."

"Thank you, Ducky." Ziva said. "I appreciate you finding out for me."

"Of course, dear. As for the bastard responsible for your friend's condition, he's doing well, and in recovery." The doctor's words were grim.

"What the hell?" The cop demanded, moving from his own corner where he'd stood observing. "I shot the bastard—as did your agent!"

"Apparently you both missed anything vital. Pity." Ducky said.

"And any others?" Ziva asked. "I know I knocked at least one in."

"I think you mean _out, _Ziva." Penelope corrected. "And I know Elena and Emily did some damage, too."

"Four have been transferred to the medical unit at the jail." The cop said, reading from his notes. "Two more are also in this hospital. In addition to Corruthers, apparently."

"So _seven_ suspects injured?" Gibbs demanded. "Ziva, step by step, what happened? All details, please. I think we'd all like to know."

Elena chose that moment to enter, leaning heavily on a male orderly. She moved to Jack's side, sinking into the free chair between him and Abby. "We came out of the bar. Emily was in front."

"I was at Emily's direct left. JJ and Pen were slightly behind us." Ziva added. "Abby was beside Pen, Elena and Sam were in the rear. We were halfway to our vehicles when they stopped us."

"How many?" the almost-cold BAU man asked.

"Twelve at first." Ziva's eyes narrowed as she mentally reviewed every detail. "The tall one, the leader, eyes were cold, dead. High. He saw Emily first, never really looked away from her once he saw her. Had six men on his left, five on his right. None were too big—he was the biggest. I think he liked it that way, gave him a sense of superiority—I think that is the word. They looked at him for obvious direction."

"He made comments. Emily told him we wanted no trouble." Elena's accented words were added to Ziva's. "Told him to let us pass."

"Did you identify yourselves?" Gibbs demanded.

"Not then." Ziva said. "It would have been a bad idea. Female officers in their territory—would have been even bigger of a challenge. Emily warned him again. He grabbed Emily's arm. Pulled her to him."

"When did you draw your weapons?" The cop asked, taking notes quickly. The rest of the men's attentions sharpened even more, upon hearing of the guns involved.

"Not then." Ziva repeated. "We were too outnumbered. We told Emily we were ready. We knew trouble."

"I moved." Elena started. "Emily and Ziva moved. We needed space to move if necessary. Emily pushed JJ behind her, Abby and Pen moved closer to JJ with Sam in front of them. That left Emily center, Ziva to the right, me to the left. He grabbed Emily again. Jerked her closer."

"We fought." Ziva said starkly. "Sam tried to get JJ, Abby, and Pen back inside."

"I couldn't." The blond said, drowsily, from her position beside Malone. "Seven more appeared between us and the entrance. Herded us like damned cattle back to where Z, El, and Em were. Then we were surrounded. That's when we drew our weapons. We moved, covered each other."

"Emily told him we would not back down." Elena said. "Then we stood there. We knew they were armed. Threatened to shoot us. Emily called his bluff—told him if he shot us they'd not…they'd not…"

"If they shot us, they'd not get what they wanted, but if _we _shot them—we'd get exactly what we wanted. I think he believed her." Ziva said, not sugar-coating. "So we stood there, waiting. Five minutes, less than ten.Then the police arrived."

"I called them, on my cell, when we were behind that car. While Pen and Abby were throwing rocks." A new feminine voice said from the doorway. JJ moved quickly, throwing her arms around Will. He held her tight, one hand dropping to her belly. Then he released her and she hugged the rest of her team—with the exceptions of Rossi and Hotch.

"And then?" Rossi urged. "How did Emily get shot?"

"The bastard must have realized he had no out—he fired on Emily. She fired, as did Lt. Wyatt." JJ said, motioning to the copper-haired man standing near the corner. "They both went down. Emily was bleeding badly, so badly."

"But she never backed down." Elena said, voice closing with tears. "Never took her eyes off him. Refused to let that bastard win."

"She kept things under control until help could arrive." Ziva said, nodding. "Did exactly what she should have. And she definitely didn't back down."

The cop nodded, though his face showed a mix of irritation and admiration."No, she never backed down."


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

_**The guilty one is not he who commits the sin, but the one who causes the darkness.**__**"**_

_**Victor Hugo**_

Wyatt watched the group of agents milling about the waiting room, cataloging all the players quickly. They were an intimidating group, but none more so than the man they called Hotchner. His eyes were dark and cold and he held himself erect. He stood by the door, speaking only to the black man and the older one Wyatt recognized as that author of serial killer novels. They kept their voices low and their bodies tense.

They were her teammates, apparently. And they were worried, angered, that their colleague was injured. Wyatt could understand their anger, if it had been one of his teammates, he'd have probably acted the same way.

One of Wyatt's favorite pastimes was watching people and while he waited to talk to the woman, he indulged himself. He ignored the little voice telling him he could leave and come back later, that he _should _be back at the precinct taking care of the loose ends and the bookings. Instead, he'd called his second-in-command Detective Jessica Banks, pulling her in on her day off to handle it all. She wouldn't be pleased, but he was the boss, so what could she do. And it wasn't as if he hadn't covered for her on numerous occasions. So he'd take a few minutes to study the group of agents surrounding him.

Wyatt had never been drawn to the agent-life, personally. He'd felt he could do more good as part of the blue line, instead. But that didn't mean he didn't consider himself beneath or inferior because he was a local and they were federals. The room reeked of arrogance and confidence. These people were dangerous.

He wondered where the pretty brunette fit in with this crowd. The blue-suited one, Hotchner, paced slightly. He reminded Wyatt of a damned wildcat, like he'd seen as a kid growing up in Kentucky. Rangy, wild, controlled until the moment of pouncing.

He wondered if this was the woman's lover. If that was what was behind the cold man's fury. He snarled unconsciously, as he watched the man move. He didn't like that idea. Not at all. He wasn't sure why. No, Wyatt didn't like this Hotchner guy at all. But the brunette had called it right, saying the man would be angry at this.

The smaller woman, the one called Ziva, she'd caught his attention as well. She was a beautiful woman, if a bit young for Wyatt's tastes. He estimated he had nearly a dozen years on the girl. But she sat there, in the corner chair, her hands fiddling skillfully with a small dagger, running it quickly over her fingers, flipping it end over end repeatedly. She seemed oblivious to the looks she was getting as she stared down the corridor. She had been one of the ones to fight, to defend her friends, and he found that slightly incongruous with her appearance. He just couldn't see it.

He glanced at the clock again, as the baby in the room cried. His mother, the classic blond, shushed him. Fed him. Changed him. Rocked him to sleep. Her own eyes were groggy, and he could see she was fighting the pain pill.

The other woman, Elena he thought her name was, sat staring dazedly at the rest of the crowd. Her pain was written on her exotically beautiful face for everyone to see. But she never complained, and had rarely said anything, except to the dark haired man who'd arrived nearly two hours after the rest of the room's occupants. The man, whom she'd called Danny, had moved to sit beside her, his arm going to rest behind her shoulders. She'd leaned on him for only a moment before straightening. She too was a fighter, and that was evidenced by the fresh cast on her left arm, by the bruises forming on her face.

They were all fighters, and Wyatt had to admire that. He seriously doubted he'd forget the sight of them surrounded, knowing the odds were against them, but still unwavering. And _she'd _been in the forefront of his mind in the three hours they'd been waiting. He wondered briefly if she was a beautiful as he'd remembered, if in the light of day and the absence of adrenaline she'd still look so…captivating? That thought filled him with a latent sense of excitement that he just couldn't shake. What did it say for him—sitting there pondering an injured woman?

An injured woman whose blood still stained his shirt. He excused himself for a moment, found a restroom and removed the soiled garment, revealing a relatively clean white undershirt. His leather jacket—one of his favorites, dammit—had absorbed most of the blood, followed by his shirt. Only a bit had soaked into the white cotton undershirt. He washed the blood from his skin, watching idly as it mixed with the soap and water to run in a rivulet to the drain. Blood had always fascinated _and _repulsed him, he'd never been able to figure out why.

He washed his face, then dried his hands. He gave a vague hope for his jacket's future before returning to the group. He was stopped at the door by the one called Hotchner. He kept his look professional. "Yes?"

"Why aren't you out there rounding up the other individuals involved?" The agent demanded, eyes boring into Wyatt. Wyatt paid him no mind. This man didn't intimidate him.

"We've got the majority of them, already." Wyatt said, in his lazy drawl that was such a contrast to the man's tone. Wyatt didn't miss the way everyone in the room tuned into the conversation. "The rest will be rounded up by morning. They are not hardened criminals, just idiots. They won't get too far."

"Still, why are you wasting time here? I want them all rounded up so we can charge them." Hotchner said, tone still lethal.

"That's up to the lawyers." Wyatt said, not backing down. This man wasn't going to challenge him. It was _his _jurisdiction, his case. "And I'm off the clock now. We'll pick things up in the morning—_after _I have your girl's statement."

"Why do you need Emily's statement?" Elena demanded. "We've told you _all _what happened. You should leave Emily alone. Go get the rest of those bastards off the streets. I know some got away."

"And my team will get them. If they've not got them all by now." Wyatt softened toward the woman. He knew she'd—they'd—been through a hell of a time tonight. "We may not be federal, but I can assure you—my team is damned good at our job."

"So good five federal agents couldn't walk across a well-lit parking lot at eleven at night without being attacked?" Elena asked, her words drawing everyone's attention. "Let me ask you this, Lt. Wyatt—what if Emily and Ziva had left early like they had planned? If Abby and Pen hadn't delayed them? Then what? They would have been in that parking lot alone? Then what? I doubt we'd all be sitting here right now."

Wyatt couldn't argue that. "Look, this was an anomaly. I know that doesn't make up for what happened tonight. But Corruthers and his cronies normally didn't stray that far, and I've never known him to accost someone that openly. And rest assured, I'm going to get to the bottom of it. I promise you that. First thing in the morning, _after _I talk to your friend. Maybe she noticed something off about Corruthers. _She _was looking directly at him, and got the closest to him from the very beginning, right?"

He waited for the nods, knowing he had everyone's undivided attention, before continuing. "Now I don't know how observant your friend is about things, but I need whatever she noticed _before _I can move forward."

He paused as half the room erupted in surprised laughter. "Something I missed?"

"Emily—she is a criminal profiler." The Goth woman said. "She's _very _observant."

"Good. Maybe she can help me find out why Corruthers was acting out of character." Wyatt said, after the laughter had quieted. "Make sure there's nothing more going on here."

"Perhaps, if you had not been arguing with Emily for so long, Corruthers would not have so stupidly pulled his weapon." The little one, Ziva said, quietly, voice like ice. "And Emily would be answering your questions right now."

Wyatt didn't miss the nods of half the women in the room. The other two women just watched apprehensively. The men were tense, too, and Wyatt felt like he suddenly had a target tattooed to his chest. "I don't think that's fair, Officer David."

"Maybe not fair, but there is truth to my words, no?" She stood then, limped closer to him. She really was small, standing over a head shorter than he. "I guess we will never know, will we?"

She moved past him, limping gingerly to the door of the waiting room. The elderly doctor followed after her, inquiring about her ankle, and chiding her for not telling him sooner. He heard her arguing with the man about seeking treatment, at the least an X-ray.

"What _exactly _was that girl talking about?" The African American agent demanded, moving aggressively into Wyatt's space. "You responsible for Emily getting shot?"

(_I had to put the part about Hotch possibly being Emily's lover—how could__** I**__ not? So, opinions? Reviews? Yeas? Nays? Anything?)_


	5. Chapter 5

_Five: CAN'T CATCH A BREAK_

_Consciousness is nature's nightmare—Emile M. Cioran_

Emily did not want to wake up. But she wanted to face the monsters in her mind even less, so she forced her eyes open. Her mouth formed a silent scream around the tube in her throat and she panicked, tried to thrash on the bed.

Anesthesia always made her hallucinate, and a part of her was aware of where she was and what most likely had happened. But what she didn't remember at that very moment was _why _or _how _she'd ended up in that hospital bed. A man leaned over her, his face lined and kind. He looked vaguely familiar to Emily but she couldn't place him. He was saying something, and Emily blinked, trying to focus on him.

"Hello, my dear. Remember me? I am Dr. Mallard, a friend of young Ziva's. Blink if you understand me."

Emily deliberately blinked slowly. Three times. She'd met him, she thought, when she'd stopped by NCIS to go to lunch with Ziva and Abby. But why was he here? She tried to speak.

"Shh. That nasty endotracheal tube is in there because you had a reaction to something and they can't remove it just yet, you've shown some sensitivity to medications that restricts the airway, and they want to keep everything working properly. And you're still very weak. I'm just here for a moment to check your condition while I wait for young Ziva to finish up, the girl is exceedingly stubborn. No questions, just rest." She felt him pat her hand softly. "I'll be back later, probably with a guest or two for you. You've quite a crowd waiting to see those lovely eyes. Just relax and stay calm, my dear. You'll be fit and fine in no time."

Then he was gone, leaving Emily alone in the room, with no one but the monsters in her mind for company. Emily hated monsters. Tears leaked from her dark eyes, and she squeezed them shut, vainly trying to stop the flow.

EMILYPRENTISSEMILYPRENTISSEMILYPRENTISS

Wyatt stared at the man invading his personal space. The man was athletic, and probably considered to be good looking. "I ordered your agent to lower her weapon. At the time, I couldn't ascertain that Corruthers was armed, when I realized he was, I allowed your agents to keep their weapons, yes. But Corruthers drew and both your agent and I fired. I followed my department's procedure thoroughly."

"Morgan." Hotchner said. "Now's not the time."

"When is, Hotch? This is _Emily _we're talking about!" The man's fists were balled, and Wyatt tensed, waiting for the first swing.

"I know." Hotchner said. "But stand down. Wyatt was just doing his job. Just like we would have done, like _Prentiss _would do."

"Has anyone called Emily's mother, yet?" The tall, skinny kid asked suddenly. He'd spoken off and on through the evening, in a fast-paced, slightly breakable voice that Wyatt hadn't paid much attention to. Apparently the kid was a member of her team, too, though he looked more like a grad student. "The ambassador?"

"I left a message with her answering service, it was the only number I had." Hotchner said. "I don't know if she got it or not."

"Anyone else we need to call?" The writer guy asked their team leader. "Any other next of kin who might want to be here when she wakes up?"

"No." Agent Hotchner said. "There's nobody else to notify. Everyone's already in this room. Agent Delgado and the ambassador are listed as next of kin."

"I see." The writer said. "So now we wait."

"Now we wait." Hotchner echoed, hands crossed and fisted, knuckles showing white.

"I hate waiting." The grad student said, sighing. He jumped up and began pacing erratically around the room.

"We know, youngster." Agent Morgan said. "But what else is there?"

Wyatt settled back into his corner seat, back to watching the strange group, seventeen in all, including the baby. That damned Hotchner just kept standing by the waiting room door. He didn't really move until the NCIS doctor returned. Then the man tensed, and the room's entire occupants turned. The man began talking, holding the attention of everyone. "Our girl has been moved to recovery. She awoke briefly, seemed coherent, and is now sleeping again. They do have her intubated, she apparently had an allergic reaction to the anesthesia, and went into anaphylaxis, but appears to be breathing well on her own now. She is now doing well, and should be awake fully—and breathing completely on her own—by morning. I suggest everyone go and get some rest."

Wyatt remained in his seat as those around him began speaking animatedly about who should stay and who should go.

Hotchner spoke. "I'll stay, Detective La Montaigne, take JJ home. Rest, I'm sure you'll want to be here in the morning when Prentiss wakes. Morgan, Reid, Rossi—I'll call if anything changes. Garcia—somehow I doubt you're going anywhere, correct?"

A murmur of _yes, sir's _sounded from most of those he ordered.

"You know me so well, handsome one." The loudly dressed blonde winked, lightening the mood. "Not budgin' until Emily kicks me out herself."

The mother stood, lifting the infant. Malone rose as well, one hand going to rest on her back. "Danny, I have a hotel room near here. Has double beds. Not ideal, but we can all share. Then head back up to New York after the girls see their friend."

"You will call, Agent Hotchner, if anything changes?" Elena asked. "I can be here in fifteen."

"Of course." The man nodded, imperiously. Wyatt really didn't care for the man. Not at all. Lord of the manor bullshit, expecting everybody to kowtow to his orders. Wyatt never had been one to bow down before superiors. More likely to sneer and kick back, that was Wyatt's style. He wondered how the dark-haired agent handled her boss. "I'll be sure to contact you all with any changes."

The NCIS man ordered his own agents out of the waiting room, though the little one protested. She waited, foot finally bandaged , near the door, crutches tucked neatly under the chair. She'd apparently broken a bone in her foot when she busted one of Corruthers cronies' head. Tough little lady, Wyatt couldn't help but think.

He sat back after the NCIS agents left; sat back and waited. He wasn't leaving until the lady woke up. And told him to go herself.

EMILYPRENTISSEMILYPRENTISSEMILYPRENTISS

Emily was being chased by them, faces grotesque and hideous. Then they'd morph into the very monsters she chased during the day. She saw Hinkle standing over Reid, saw Battle shooting Garcia, saw Hotch's SUV exploding over and over again. Then she was back in the compound with Reid. These images played over and over in her mind. She struggled, fought with all she could. Something held her by the throat, making it impossible for her to breathe, something was jammed down her throat, her hands felt heavy. There were tentacles wrapped around her chest.

Her chest was on fire, her head hurt, her lungs, her arms, her legs. She was screaming, and no one could hear her. No one came to help her.

Like always, when it came right down to it—Emily Prentiss was completely alone.

The nurse jumped when the woman on the bed started thrashing . She pressed the call-button, bringing a few orderlies in. Paged the physician. If the patient kept up the wild movements, she'd jerk her tubes free, and possibly damage herself.

"Hold her down." The head nurse ordered, also rushing in to the room. "I don't want to have to use hard restraints. I've paged Dr. Thomas, she'll be here shortly."

"What the hell's going on?" The younger nurse asked, moving to hold the arm where the IV was attached, keeping the woman from inadvertently ripping the tubing free. "What's wrong with her?"

"My guess is nightmares!" The head nurse said, watching the patient's face carefully. "We'll have to get that damned tube out or she'll hurt herself."

The doctor rushed into the room, hastily giving orders for another push of the morphine, hoping the drugging effect would calm the woman.

It didn't. The patient just kept fighting. Dr. Thomas moved to the woman's head, and order the two orderlies—both young , male, and strong—to hold her as still as possible. Soon the tube was removed from the woman's throat. The patient's dark eyes flew open and she looked around, letting out a deep throaty scream that had everyone rocking back on their heels.

EMILYPRENTISSEMILYPRENTISSEMILYPRENTISS

Wyatt jerked when the first scream ripped the air. He was only a few steps behind Hotchner and his blond subordinate as they ran down the hall full tilt. Hotchner shouldered his way into the recovery room, and the blond was on his heels. Wyatt stood at the rear, not wanting to intrude, but willing to help if needed.

"What the hell's going on?" Hotchner demanded. Wyatt looked past him to the woman on the bed. She was fighting the arms holding her down, her eyes wide and unbearably frightened. He fought the urge to move closer. Hotchner apparently felt no compunction. He stepped to the edge of the bed.

"Emily? You're ok." Hotchner said, in a firm and reassuring voice. He didn't move to touch her. The blond grabbed her friend's hand and squeezed.

Emily calmed, slightly, and Wyatt figured she recognized her colleagues on a deeper level. Hotchner demanded of the doctor to know what happened, and Wyatt listened from the doorway.

But it was the soft voice that caught everyone's attention. "Hotch? Sir? God, make it stop, _please!"_

"Make what stop, Emily?" Hotchner asked, one hand rising to cover the blonde's where it held the brunette's. "Tell me, and I'll do my best."

"Dreams. Hinkle. Battle. All of them, in my head. Running around. Everywhere I turn. Where's Reid, is he alright? We didn't leave him, did we? Did we find him?" Emily rambled, her words running so quickly no one really understood her. Except that damned Hotchner, who murmured reassurances.

"Hotch?" She said, her body beginning to shiver uncontrollably. The doctor cursed, and Wyatt looked at her.

"Yes. I'm here." The man said, moving just a little closer.

"No morphine. No other narcotics. Too sensitive. Nightmares, you know. Breathing, can't breathe with them."

"Emily, are you allergic to morphine or any other NMBAs?" The doctor demanded sharply. All movement stopped.

"Yes." The woman's eyes closed again, as her teeth began to chatter.

"She's going into shock! Why the hell wasn't I told about this? Have we got her charts here yet? Get them!" The doctor yelled, "All non-essential personnel out! Wayne! I need epinephrine, _before _she seizes! Everybody _move!"_

_(Gee, maybe I'll just have Wyatt and Emily have a relationship without ever actually meeting! Wouldn't that be weird...next chapter, maybe they'll meet!)_


	6. Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX: STRUCK DOWN

_I do not think that what is called Love __**at first sight**__ is so great an absurdity as it is sometimes imagined to be. We generally make up our minds beforehand to the sort of person we should like, grave or gay, black, brown, or fair; with golden tresses or raven locks; -- and when we meet with a complete example of the qualities we admire, the bargain is soon struck.__"_

William Hazlitt

It was touch and go for several more hours, and Wyatt waited for all of them. Her charts had been confused with another woman's two floors down, and Wyatt had a feeling the hospital would be facing an internal audit first thing in the morning. If not more. Hotchner had made a few phone calls, his voice coldly lethal as he'd explained to the other end of the line exactly what had happened.

Wyatt didn't like him, but he had to admit the man was very effective.

She'd looked so frightened. Nothing at all like the strong, fearless leader he'd seen standing facing incredible odds just a few hours earlier. He'd had a hard time fighting the urge to stay at her side, to hold her hand. Tell her she'd be fine, that he was there and wouldn't let anything else happen to her.

He'd never felt that way about a victim before. Or another law enforcement agent. It…disconcerted… him slightly. He sat back and watched the occupants of the waiting room as they sat there. The little one, Ziva, had returned three hours after leaving. Hadn't spoken to anyone, just settled down on the couch, her foot propped up on the arm. She'd fallen asleep twenty minutes later. The black guy, BAU, had returned not long after.

Hotchner had merely nodded, then updated the man on Agent Prentiss's status. The guy had balled his fists, demanded to know why with all the team had been through, she was injured while out for drinks. Hotchner had merely nodded, saying he didn't understand it either.

The kid and the older guy had returned, too. Neither had said much, just took chairs and waited. And waited. They all waited.

Finally the doctor entered the waiting room. "Here for Agent Prentiss?"

"We all are." Hotchner said, in a coldly flat, unemotional tone. Wyatt really didn't like the man. "How is she?"

"She's stable. Sleeping, peacefully, finally. We've flushed the narcotics out of her system, repaired all damage done by the bullet, and are watching for signs of infection. If all goes well from here on out, she'll be walking out of here in the next couple of days. She's a lucky woman."

"Lucky you're damned hospital didn't kill her, you mean?" The black guy said.

"The allergic reaction was serious, we don't deny that. But there should be no after-effects at this point. In the meantime, I suggest you all go home, she won't be waking for at least another six to eight hours." The doctor said, wearily rubbing her forehead.

"I'll be staying." Hotchner said, coldly. Wyatt wondered if he did everything that coldly.

"Me, too. And I doubt we could get Ziva to leave." Penelope said. "And I wouldn't be brave enough to even try."

"Why?" the boy asked, looking at the small woman.

"Moussad." Penelope said, looking at the still sleeping woman. "She doesn't look it, but she's more dangerous than Hot Stuff over there."

Wyatt's brows rose. Moussad explained a few things. "Agent Hotchner, I'll expect a call when your girl wakes up."

"We'll see that you're informed."

EMILYSLEEPINGBEAUTY

Emily hurt. Her arm was on fire, as was her chest, and throat. There was another damned tube, and she couldn't get it out. Her hand was on a remote and she pushed the button, hoping it was what she thought it was.

She got her answer when a nurse ambled in a few moments later. "Well, look who's finally awake. You've had quite a crowd in the waiting room. Let's get that tube out, so you can greet them."

Five minutes later Emily was sucking water through a straw. The nurse finally lowered the cup and Emily spoke for the first time since waking. "My friends? Are they alright?"

"I believe so. If you'd like I can grab a few of those visitors and they can fill you in on what's happened since you were brought in. I'll page your doctor as well."

"Thank you." Emily rasped out. "Is Hotch out there?"

"I'll check. He the tall, dark haired guy in a suit. Who looks like he's never smiled?"

"Yes. My boss."

"I'll check."

BAUBAUBAUBAUBAUBADDASSES

The nurse Wyatt had bribed to call him notified him twenty minutes later that the patient was awake. Thirty minutes later, he was strolling through the hospital, intent on getting her statement.

But that damned Hotchner barred him at the door. "You're not going in yet, she needs time to rest."

"I need to speak with her. This will only take a moment." Wyatt said, meeting the man's gaze head on. The guy might be a cold bastard, but if he thought he'd be able to intimidate Wyatt, he was in for a hard lesson. "I'm doing my job, Hotchner, don't stand in my way."

"Hotch?" A feminine voice rang out and Wyatt felt his gut tighten. "I can talk to him. Better to get it out of the way."

Hotchner moved, though Wyatt saw the reluctance in his actions. As he stepped around the man, Hotchner leaned in. "Do not upset her, in any way."

"Don't plan on it." Wyatt smirked, his blue eyes meeting cold brown ones. Then his breath caught as he turned toward the woman on the bed. Her eyes—they were dark, fathomless. Captivating. She was thin, he saw, but with feminine curves. Older than he'd first thought, closer to his thirty-eight than the thirty he'd originally estimated. She held knowledge in her eyes, knowledge of the world, and knowledge of the evil in that world. She was pale, and he wondered if it was entirely due to her recent ordeal or if her skin was naturally that milky.

She looked like the children's fairytale version of Snow White. He wondered if Hotchner fulfilled the role of Prince Charming as the man moved to her side. The black guy was there, again, sitting at the foot of the bed. The boy stood awkwardly at the window, eyes darting from person to person. Wyatt had heard he was some kind of doctor, but he doubted it.

"If I could have a few moments alone with Agent Prentiss?" Wyatt drawled, looking at each of the men. "I promise it won't take long."

He knew they were reluctant to leave, but the woman on the bed nodded. The three drifted out, each one shooting a warning look at Wyatt. He smirked. They weren't so intimidating, he'd come across much worse.

He moved closer to the bed, eyes meeting the direct gaze of Agent Emily Prentiss. She looked smaller than he remembered and it gave him pause. "How are you feeling?"

"Like someone shot me." She said, evenly. "I'll admit it, Detective…? I'm sorry, I don't really remember you."

"Michael Wyatt. Head of the DC task force on gang prevention." He shook her hand, the one not in a sling, careful of the IV tubes running into her soft skin. "We met last night."

"Last night." Her brow furrowed. "You were the cop who wanted me to lower my weapon."

"Yes." Wyatt was still ok with the way he'd handled things, so he left it at that small word. "What else do you remember?"

"Should I start at the beginning?" Her voice was husky, a result of the livid bruises that covered her throat—bruises in the distinct shape of a man's large hand. Bruises that made Wyatt very, very angry.

"That's always a good place." He said, drolly. Her eyes flashed with what he assumed was a touch of humor.

"In the beginning I was born in a relatively large town in Maryland." She began and he laughed.

"Not quite _that _beginning, Agent Prentiss." He moved closer to the bed, absently straightened the blanket around her feet. She'd kicked it off, and one small foot was peeking out at him. Someone had painted her toenails, he saw, a bright array of rainbow colors. Probably one of her friends, Penelope, most likely. She had exquisitely feminine toes. Wyatt had never had a foot fetish before, but he definitely liked the looks of her foot. He ruthlessly covered it up and got back to his business. "Why were you at Cooley's?"

"We'd heard it was a nice place. That it was interesting, entertaining, food was great. And that it was safe." Her mouth twisted there at the end.

"Safe?" Wyatt moved closer unconsciously as he saw the small shiver run through her. She leaned back against the pillow, adjusted the bed before answering.

"Detective Wyatt—my team and I chase serial killers. Ziva's—murderers, rapists, kidnappers. Elena's—they deal with finding people who are nine times out of ten, already dead. So when we get together, we want to go someplace where we can feel secure enough to relax. It was the first time we'd been to Cooley's so we were a little more cautious, a little more prepared. Thank God. We had our weapons, many times we've went out without them. Never again."

Wyatt felt for her, understood the pressures of the job they all did. Hated that that small measure of escape had been taken from her. Inexplicably wanted to wrap his arms around her and tell her it would be alright, that _he'd _keep her safe.

What the hell was the matter with him? He'd never felt this way about a woman, never so intensely, and never so quickly. Wyatt wasn't the kind of guy who fell, especially this hard.

But there was something about Agent Emily Prentiss that drew him.

Before he could say anything his cell rang, and he stepped back politely. He probably shouldn't have had it on in the building, but he'd forgotten.

He spoke for a moment, listened for even longer, before disconnecting. He looked at the woman on the narrow hospital bed. "Agent Prentiss?"

"Yes? Are we about finished? I'm sorry, but I'm feeling incredibly tired." Her eyes were closed when he stepped closer.

"Certainly, just as soon as you tell me who you know who'd have the motive and the knowledge to snap Al Corruthers' neck."

Her eyes flew open, big, dark, exotic, and confused. "Excuse me?"

"The man who shot you, who _we _both shot? He was scheduled to be transported to the prison hospital ward this evening. They just found him with his neck snapped. So once again, who do you know who'd kill for you?" He pushed, voice turning harsh from years of experience at just the right moment.

Someone had turned killer, and he had a strong suspicion she knew who.

And she was going to tell him. One way or another.


End file.
